


and what I assume, you shall assume

by spock



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Extra Treat, Gaslighting, M/M, Mating Rituals, Possessive Behavior, Post-Series, Supernatural Elements, ToT: Chocolate Box, ToT: Monster Mash, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: It's possible that Thomas has developed an enemy. It's equally possible that he's snagged an admirer. The third option of course is that it's all inside of Thomas' head and nothing has been going on at all. It rather depends on who you ask.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimm/gifts).



> although none of it is graphic or mentioned in more than passing detail, there are a lot of dead rabbits in this. their deaths happen off-screen and were probably done as humanely as possible, but if even the thought of animal cruelty bothers you, this is a warning!

There were hundreds of tasks to be completed before a lad from town came cycling to the estate’s back entrance with the day's paper. It had only occurred to Thomas quite recently just how many of those lads he had seen come and go during his tenure. 

The cause had been his noticing that the latest incarnation bore a striking resemblance to one of his predecessors, though Thomas couldn't place whom. The boy had gone home, mentioned as much to his father, and the following morning returned with a report of how his father had delivered the news to Downton in his own youth, some fifteen years past, though of course at the time it had been into the hands of a Mister Carson.

The thought would strike Thomas quite suddenly, typically just as he had finished dressing for the day, and the force of it would require a quick sit-down to collect himself before he stepped out and did rounds down his side of the servant's hall, waking his subordinates on the way to the stairwell. 

Fifteen years felt like a lifetime ago to Thomas. He raked his mind as he tried to recall what things had been like for him then. It'd been before the war, before any of the inheritance nonsense, though it had rankled Thomas that he could remember the goings-on of the family easier than he could with that of himself. It had taken nearly a whole afternoon's worth of half-distracted mulling for him to call to mind that he'd been with the Duke around that time, either in the midst of ensnaring himself as much as the other man, his heart always too soft to succeed at his more dastardly schemes, or at the tail-end of it all, having his heart and plans burned to ashes with the same careless flick of a wrist and cruel utterance of words. 

It occurred to him that the Duke had been his last real relationship, unequal and flawed as it'd been, and therein laid the need for the sit-down, though that one had been much longer than the subsequent events. 

It hadn't been that which weighed on Thomas' mind any longer, not when the Spring had finally made its way to the Abbey on what marked the first year which Downton was his to play Butler to. He longed for the days that had been his just a week prior, when the main few persistent worries in his life had had been the ever-changing reasons for pettiness between staff and the how the passage of time had all but seemed to have slipped through his fingers. Any such trivialities would have been welcome. 

For going on six days by then, what had awaited Thomas on the other side of his bedroom door had been the curled up remains of a rabbit, each one bigger than the last, cleaned of gore but what had felt to Thomas like a threat all the same. The first night he had awoken from a dream, the contents of which he hadn’t been able to recount,by kind hearted little Phillip having had screeched in the hallway when he'd discovered it while bringing Thomas up his breakfast. He'd told the boy that the poor bugger must've snuck into the house and passed in its sleep, chasing the warmth that leaked from beneath Thomas' door.

It hadn’t been a lie. It’d been what Thomas himself had first assumed, at any rate. Since then, Thomas had need to rise early in order to to dispose of the things before Phillip discovered them before Thomas could. 

The third night he'd kept himself awake until dawn, listening for even the slightest hint of movement in the hallway. He hadn't heard so much as a floorboard resettling itself in the way old manors were won't to do, complete and utter silence, practically unnatural, but all the same when he'd gone to step into the hallway that fourth morning, there it had been, so delicately placed that all it seemed to have been missing had been a bow. 

On what marked the seventh day, Thomas considered what his life had been like nearly two decades prior, all that had happened to him since, and came to the conclusion that whatever might be waiting for him on the other side of his door — whatever the source and sentiment behind it, should he ever discover it — Thomas had the misfortune in life to have been through worse, and would certainly survive what he currently faced just as he had that which had come before it. 

 

+

 

It had been easy for him to slip back into a lifetime of suspiciousness, far easier than it had been for him to let it go, even for such a short period of time.

He watched everyone from the corner of his eye, had taken stock of those who might have felt Thomas had slighted them in some way. Thomas had been keenly aware that despite his always striving to keep himself in check, he had a softer touch with the groundsmen and young hallboys learning the trade than he ever did with housemaids or kitchen staff, though, from what he could gather, none of them begrudged him for it, if they noticed it at all. 

His entrance into any given room that morning had been greeted with quick curtseys and stiff-backed bows, sometimes even with a smile on their faces, but never to frowns or carefully-schooled blank looks, such as those he and O'Brien had been known to wear in their day. 

Thomas made a point of being kinder to the number of girls that crossed his path, looking for shock and any trace of guilt, though he doubted any of them had the constitution to murder some hapless bunny just the once, never mind seven nights in a row. Their escaping to do so surely would have caught the attentions of Baxter, in charge of the ladies hall since Mrs. Hughes had moved out to the cottage with Carson, and she would have dutifully reported such matters back to him in any such case. 

He allowed himself to use the extent of his charm on the lads, eyes honed for feelings of disgust. His antics were met with bemused smiles by those who had known him for a while and flushed yet confused looks of pleasure by those who didn't, in what Thomas assumed were boys who missed their fathers and undoubtedly saw Thomas as a surrogate, his kind approval and warm looks the epitome of praise to them. There was one, however, who couldn't have been older than sixteen, a lad they’d taken on to apprentice under the groomsman, who seemed far too keen to return Thomas' advances, and Thomas resolved firmly to resist that temptation, should it ever reach fruition. 

By luncheon he hadn't come any closer to compile a list of likely suspects. For the first time in his life, he didn't seem to have any enemies, obvious or otherwise. 

 

\+ 

 

Thomas had been sat at the head of the servant's table just after dinner, cigarette poised between his lips as he idly shuffled a deck of cards, using both as an excuse to stay downstairs as he eavesdropped on the conversation around him. He had found that his new title resulted in the loss of his intimate knowledge with regards to the ongoing drama of the house and its staff, though he couldn't for the life of him discover why. It hadn't been as if he wasn't around the same amount as he had been as footman and underbutler, but as if it was a curse that came with the title, he found that if he wasn't careful it would only be a matter days before he was completely out of sync with what was really going on under his nose. The only way he could keep up was by listening in where he didn't belong to those who still had their fingers to the pulse of it all. 

"I heard that noise out in the woods again," Daisy said. She'd been speaking to Mrs. Patmore, who couldn't have possibly looked more bored at the topic, yet Thomas found himself enrapt.

"Whatever sort of noise would that be?" A voice asked.

Thomas had risen from his chair as he noticed Branson standing in the doorway, the rest of the staff following suit. "Sir," Thomas had begun to say, but Branson waved him off. 

"Oh no, none of that. I just came down to ask something of you Thomas, but this sounds much more interesting." He returned his gaze to Daisy. "Well now, spill it."

Everyone retook their seats as Daisy spoke. "I've been hearing the echoes of something out in the forest, is all. I haven't the faintest clue what it is. I can't remember us ever having wolves but it sounds too big to be a fox, seein' as I can hear it all the way up in my room, so far away from those trees. Besides, I didn't hear howlin'." 

Thomas had frowned and thought that such a thing would explain the rabbits, but not how they arrived at his door, or any reason as to why. "I'll be sure to make sure everything's locked up tight," Thomas promised. 

Daisy shot him a look as if she thought he had been out of his mind. "That's nice, but far as I can tell it isn't keen on breaking down the door. It sounds way far off whenever I catch hearin' of it."

"Still," Thomas had said, and the matter had been settled. The lot of them returned to their conversations and Thomas stood for a second time, making his way to Branson. "What was it that you needed me for, sir?" 

Branson stared at him for a few moments. "Well this is embarrassing. I find that I've quite forgotten. " He shared with Thomas the meek cousin of his usual grin. "What say you about all this forest business?"

Thomas steepled his fingers, tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. "What if I told you that I think it would explain a few things?"

"I'd accuse you lot of having started up one of those penny dreadful book clubs after I'd left for the upstairs."

Chastened, Thomas had taken into his lungs another mouthful of smoke and nodded his good humor at the sentiment. 

 

+

 

He was summoned upstairs a few days later and hadn't been entirely surprised to have Miss Sybbie fling herself at him. 

As he settled her onto his hip, he shared a bemused look with her father, who seemed to be lurking around the perimeter of the room and had a rather humble look that overtook his face. "It's possible that I may have put my foot in it," Branson said.

"How entirely out of character." Thomas wouldn't have dared to have been so glib were the rest of the family present, but Branson had always insisted he be treated as he once was, and Thomas had never been one to turn down the opportunity to treat his supposed-betters as if they were his equals, especially those who had once been as such. Branson and he shared a smile at his words, taking the sting from them. 

"I made a joke about the wolf to Sybbie during her bedtime tail and now she refuses to go out on our picnic unless you come with." 

"Sir Thomas was a knight!" Sybbie contributed, to which Thomas just had to laugh. 

"Taking creative liberty with the round table, are we?" Thomas had teased. 

"Stuff it," Branson said. "He wrote the book, and was a Sir himself besides."

Thomas decided against pushing it and settled on a different tactic. "I guess the real question is: were you referring to me, or yourself?" 

That particular bout of banter carried them through the indulgent permission of Lord Grantham and a stern instruction to Andy on what to do Thomas' stead. It wasn't long before they were off with Nanny to the garden. It took even less time for the pair of them to have been abandoned by the young Miss in favor of a kaleidoscope of butterflies and for Nanny to go chasing after her.

"I feel like I should have expected that," Branson said, his tone an echoing sentiment to the words. 

Thomas smiled and settled back onto his elbows in a recline. "It's been an age since we worked together, but I'm sure you haven't forgotten that I've always had a bit of a reputation for takin' more than my fair-share of chances to be bone-idle, sir."

"Come now." Branson groaned, "None of that."

"Branson," Thomas corrected. 

"Surely, after having spent the better part of an hour giving me grief over the damned thing, you can use my name?" 

It hadn't seemed worth the effort to argue, more so given that they were alone without anyone who might have had the propriety to be offended by such a breach in tradition; Thomas relented. "Tom, then." 

 

+

 

The next morning and another dream he couldn't quite recall had Thomas opening the door to his room to find Branson stood outside of it, the toe of his shoe prodding at what Thomas had originally been expecting to find, with Thomas' breakfast tray held in his hands. 

"Well this certainly wasn't a thing when I worked here." Branson remarked, his eyebrows raised high. 

"It's a recent development." Thomas pointed his nose down to the butcher's paper he had held in his hand, nicked from the kitchen the night before, crumpled and ready to be of use in collecting poor thing up and disposing of it. "Though I must say it's already worked itself into my routine." 

Branson hummed and asked if he might be let in. Thomas stepped to the side and allowed him to do so. 

He was careful to leave the door open. 

"I caught your boy on his way up," Branson explained. Thomas glanced over his shoulder from where he was bent over and collecting his rabbit and saw the nod Branson gave to the tray he had placed on corner of Thomas' desk. "Relieved him of his duty. Think I scared the poor lad half to death." 

It was Thomas' turn to hum in understanding. He deposited the ghoulish parcel into the bin just inside his door, something he'd have to empty himself on his way downstairs to keep Phillip from stumbling upon it when he came to tidy Thomas' room once the man was gone. 

"Well, what's with the rabbit then?" Branson asked. "Caught yourself a secret admirer?"

A few days prior and Thomas wouldn't have found such a joke to be in even the slightest of good taste, never mind spotting the humor in it, but as with all the negatives in Thomas' life, he had grown used to this strange new hindrance in his life. It wasn't hard to see where an outsider might have found the whole situation funny. "Thomas the Charmer, that's what they've always called me." 

Branson looked pleased at his response, and it occurred to Thomas that the man must have been terribly lonely. Mr. Talbot was rarely seen far from the now visibly-pregnant Lady Mary's side, which had left poor Branson to undertake the majority of the whole used car business work on his own. 

"So what's brought you all the way up here, then?" Thomas sat in his chair and pulled his breakfast closer to the middle of his desk. He knew that he should have offered Branson the seat and sat on the bed — except, of course, he shouldn't have been eating in Branson's presence at all, but that ship had long since sailed — however the thought of being anywhere near his bed with another man in his room caused Thomas' stomach to turn, even with the door open wide so that any passersby would see that nothing untoward was occurring. So he let Branson stand and watch as Thomas fixed himself a cup of tea, and Thomas did his best to hide his discomfort. 

"I'm certain that at least half the staff has asked you for time off already, so you must know by know they've set a fair up in the village." Branson walked the length of Thomas' room with hands held behind his back, as if he needed the reminder to stop himself from poking around Thomas’ things. "I was wondering if you'd like to accompany Sybbie and I to it later this morning."

"Ah, so not for my witticisms then, but another favor." 

"Should I look into having you paid extra for this?"

Thomas had taken a bite of his toast and made a show of consideration as he chewed. "Well I suppose you are still the estate manager, other commitments notwithstanding," Thomas had said once he'd swallowed. "If anyone could get away with scrapin' a bit off the top to his side projects, it'd be the manager."

Branson had looked delighted. "You fiend! I'll pay for whatever nibbles catch your eye and all the games we play, and that's my final offer."

Thomas sighed. "I guess I shouldn't expect more than something one of the Missus' actual friends would get, even if I'm about thirty years too old for the title. You drive a hard bargain, Branson, but I relent. If either of their lordships come after me though, I'm sending them for you to deal with."

"Either?"

"Carson," Thomas explained. 

Branson smiled his understanding and tapped his nose. As he turned to make his leave, a thought occurred to Thomas. "Oh, and one more condition: empty that bin for me, will you?"

"Aren't you going to keep it?" Branson asked, confused. 

"As what? Evidence? Do as I say before I change my mind." Thomas realized his words had been bolder than he ever should have dared, even with their familiar joking, but before he could beg forgiveness Branson had given him a solute and done as Thomas had asked, grabbing the canister with one hand and closing Thomas' door behind him with the other, showing himself out. 

 

\+ 

 

Thomas remembered a time not too long after Miss Sybbie's birth when the fair had come to Thirsk, just a little ways away. With all that had happened to him on that particular day, the actual events of the fair had been pushed to the back of his mind, but even the rosey haze of time-since-passed hadn't been able to convince him that Branson and he had single-handedly won the tug-of-war match for their side, though he knew they contributed a great deal more than Alfred and Jimmy had done, despite those two having had youth on their side. 

It had become increasingly apparent that Branson was keen to reclaim their title, and Thomas commented as much. The remark garnered a scoff from the other man. "The title can't be taken from us until we lose." 

Thomas decided to humor him, and hadn't bothered to hide the decision from his tone of voice. "Where’s it been all this time that we've been neglecting it, then?"

"On loan," Branson answered with the utmost of humor, not having missed a beat. 

Given that the pair of them were a good five years older — while the latest incarnation of the home-team seemed so much younger to Thomas than they had been back then, the lot of them strapping young things that Thomas had needed to remind himself more than once not to stare too hardly at as they waited their turn — Thomas hadn't expected any such repeat of their previous victory, or that if there was to be one at any rate, it wouldn't be due to them as the reason their team won it all. 

When their turn came it was down to him, Andy, Branson, Jos who worked out on the grounds, and the groomsman's apprentice who still seemed soft on Thomas. Thomas had made sure to put the lad right up front nearest to the knot, while Branson and he played at being anchor at the other end, Branson at the very end and Thomas in front of him. 

Their win came easier than the time previous, which had come to Thomas as quite a shock. He'd given it his best. From the strength that drew him backward, he wouldn't have deemed it amiss had he been told that Branson had given it his all. 

All five of them had ended up on their backs in the downtrodden grass, breathless in their collective victory. Branson had been the first to come out of it. He let out a rather barbaric yawp and sprung up onto his feet before he grabbed hold of Thomas and hauled him back onto his own, spinning him around a bit for good measure. For a moment Branson's face was pressed to the side of Thomas' neck; Thomas had received a mouthful of Branson's hair for a similar duration, the scent of it clean like the soaps all the upstairs people used, but it still had the scent of sweat that all the men Thomas had ever been with, upperclass or no, possessed, a smell that had never failed to have Thomas weak in his knees. 

Sybbie had come running up to save Thomas from himself then, one of the truest friends he'd ever had, even if she hadn't known it. Instead of letting go of him like Thomas had expected, Branson kept one hand wrapped around Thomas' shoulders and used the other to pull Sybbie up into his chest. She had hugged her father for a moment before jumping over to Thomas' chest and given him a matching treatment. The lingering sense of confusion at having Branson so close — and he had still been _close_ , keeping Thomas at his side with his hand having shifted down to rest across Thomas' back, daringly close to his waist — left him scrambling to collect her in time. Thomas had been glad to have her in his arms, since it was her and her alone that kept the confusion from having shifted over into the arousal that threatened to overtake it. 

 

\+ 

 

Thomas had dreamt of Branson that night, though in his dreams he had referred to him relentlessly as Tom. 

_Tom_ , who had joined Thomas as he had been cleaning up the library once the room had been cleared after tea. He'd closed the door and then walked determinedly to where Thomas had been stacking plates, taken Thomas by the shoulders and kissed him terribly deeply. But it hadn't been terrible at all. It had been wonderful, really. 

_Tom_ who was beside Thomas in his bed when he'd rolled over in the middle of the night, the pair of them bare-chested. Thomas had been afraid to look down and see if that hadn’t been all the clothes that the man had been missing. All fears left him when he'd rolled on top of Thomas, their bodies settling together deliciously. 

_Tom_ , who laughed when Thomas gasped his name and then rubbed their noses together. Who had said, "I wonder if this makes us a pair of narcissists, whispering sweet nothings to a man with the same name as the one we've got." Thomas had felt rather risqué with his response of, "That's the benefit of gettin' together with another bloke. Well, one of 'em, anyways." It had garnered a second laugh; Thomas realized that he was inside of him, his body tightening around Thomas, and he'd had a giggle himself when _Tom_ started to move again and said "Amen to that, as well as the rest."

He had awoken that same night feeling as if he'd been in a daze. Something drew him to the door and he indulged the instinct. He hadn't been the least bit shocked to find Branson sat outside of it. Thomas wondered if the same pull that had suddenly grabbed hold of him hadn't ensured Branson as well. 

Perhaps it was another dream. 

"Tom," he said, just as he had in all of his dreams. It occurred to him that he hadn't thought to put on his dressing gown before he'd opened the door. He hoped, very much, that the lack in modesty wouldn't be amiss. Tom had his on, but Thomas forgave him, seeing as he had traversed himself from one end to the other, and the nights inside the old house were cold no matter what time of year it was. 

He blinked and noticed that Tom had something between his hands. It was a rabbit.

He had felt something inside of him shriveling up again, something he hadn't even realized had begun to expand. "You," he'd said, and rather left it at that. 

Branson smiled. "Me."

Thomas nodded, largely to himself, and had gone to close the door. Branson's hand shot out quicker than Thomas had been able to manage and held it open. 

Branson had been frowning then. "What kind of tempest are you! Smiling at me one moment and slamming the door in my face the next."

"I don't much care to be toyed with, Mr. Branson. I'll leave you to your business, though I don't see how it could be much fun now that I know it's you."

"Now that you know it's me?" Branson questioned. "Who else do you think was leaving these for you?" He sounded put out. 

"Someone who hates me, honestly," Thomas said. "Though I can see now that there must be overlap."

"Hates you!" Branson rose to his feet and stepped forward, forcing Thomas to step back and let him into the room. Branson closed the door and continued, "Why in the bloody hell would I go through the hassle of catching those bastards for someone I hate?"

"I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea."

Branson let out a laugh, one that sounded rather cruel to Thomas' ear, and slouched back against Thomas' door, letting the entirety of his weight rest against it. "What do you know about the gánconâgh, Thomas?" Branson asked. Thomas gave him a blank look, to which Branson had nodded. "Nevermind. It isn't important, not really. Thomas, you've always known me to be practical. You've been here more than three decades now and you haven't found a man to settle down with, no? What makes you think it'll ever change?"

He rose to his full height again and closed the space between Thomas and himself, taking Thomas' wounded hand into his own. Thomas never slept with the bandage; the ugly, shameful scar had been on display for the world to see. For Branson to see. 

"Am I really so much worse than having nothing?" He cradled it between two of his own and brought it to his mouth, kissed either side of Thomas' hand, pressed his lips against the mark. "Than suffering loneliness until your end of days?" 

He led Thomas back to his bed, and had sat on it with him. He'd tangled one hand with Thomas', their fingers locked. With his other he stroked along Thomas' jaw, bringing their faces together so that he could rest his forehead against Thomas’. When he'd spoken again, his voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. "And say some miracle man does turn up, one that likes blokes, who you're also attracted to, and who on top of all that is attracted to you too. Say you even come to love him." 

Thomas tipped his head and brought their mouths together. They kissed for what felt to Thomas to be a rather long while. When they finally parted, Branson finished his speech. "Even if such a thing were to happen, what in the world makes you think I'd allow you to be with him? I'm it, Thomas. One way or another."

Something about what he'd said struck Thomas as wrong, but Thomas hadn't been able to determine what that had been at that moment. He went to pull back, collect himself, but Branson stopped him. "We already know that you'll consent to this Thomas, of course you will. You've always been practical too. How many looks have we shared in our day, due to our shared love of the practical? Imagine all else that we might share, Thomas." 

Thomas had lifted his mouth again, signaled that he was ready to be kissed again. Branson had smiled, said, "It's never been a matter of if, has it? But rather a negotiation of when," and then leaned down again to oblige him.

**Author's Note:**

> has branson always been a [gancanagh](http://gotireland.com/2013/10/04/irish-faerie-folk-of-yore-and-yesterday-the-gancanagh/) or is it a recent development? was this the reason sybil met a dire end? will thomas being a man save him from a similar end? will settling down with a man break branson's "curse", such as it is? has he been possessed? replaced?
> 
> your choice! happy halloween.


End file.
